


Lions

by WeaglesAndBrobeans



Series: A Very Capitals Collection [6]
Category: Hockey RPF, Washington Capitals - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bruising, Canon-Typical Violence, Hockey, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Language, Protective, Protective Team, Team as Family, Washington Capitals, Whump, concussion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-12 00:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16862608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeaglesAndBrobeans/pseuds/WeaglesAndBrobeans
Summary: The moment contact was made Tom knew he was in trouble. He felt the way his body whipped forward without his consent, no time to brace for impact. Pain exploded through his head, spreading sharply out from his forehead as his neck jolted and his body followed, bouncing off the ice upon impact.Basically a collection of snapshots surrounding the Reaves hit on Wilson.





	1. Friend and Former Teammate

**Author's Note:**

> Tonight’s game pissed me off. I was okay at first. Willy took a blindsided hit that led to his helmet flying off and his head crashing into the ice.  
> And I was okay. Until Reaves, who was ejected for the hit, opened his mouth after the game.  
> And I quote, “That’s what happens when you run into a lion in the jungle.”
> 
> So naturally now I’m writing this fic which is based off real events, but will soon journey off into my own imaginary world where I reconcile and coo over and defend my precious Capitals.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn’t felt this helpless in a long time. Perhaps since he received the news of his departure from Washington. Or perhaps as he stood on the ice just a few months back watching his former team hoist the Stanley Cup without him. 
> 
> For a brief moment his mind replayed the image of Willy’s helmet flying off, his head snapping into the unrelenting ice. Nate shook his head to clear the image out.

Nate Schmidt shifted uneasily under the sharp fluorescent lighting of the long hallway. He’d been looking forward to this game. And he’d been so happy early on. Playing well, chirping lightheartedly with everyone. He was ready to beat his old team and give them a taste of their own medicine. 

But not like this. 

The creak of the door snapped his somber gaze upward. Dimitri Orlov stepped out of the visitors locker room with tense shoulders and water from the shower descending lazily from his short dark hair. The defenseman’s eyes were tired, more so than after a typical regular season loss. 

Nate wasn’t sure what to say. 

“I’m really,” he began haltingly. “I just, is he? Is he okay? Can I-“

His request trailed off awkwardly as his friend and former teammate sighed and glared at the floor. 

“Don’t. It’s not good. Not good time. He’s pretty fucked up. So just. Next time yeah?”

Nate hung his head, stomach tightening. This isn’t how you’re supposed to feel after a game winning goal. He hadn’t felt this helpless in a long time. Perhaps since he received the news of his departure from Washington. Or more recently as he stood on the ice watching his former team hoist the Stanley Cup without him. 

For a brief moment his mind replayed the image of Willy’s helmet flying off, his head snapping into the unrelenting ice. Nate shook his head to clear the image out. 

“I’m sorry Dima. You know I care about every guy in that locker room. Especially big Willy.”

He knew it was fruitless, begging entrance like this. But he couldn’t help it. He wanted them to know that he was still a friend, that he wasn’t Ryan Fucking Reaves. But Nate had known enough Russians to realize that Orlov was going to be a stubborn son of a bitch about this. Once he’d made up his mind to protect his team in this way, there would be no bartering, no further conversation.

The Russian blue-liner turned and grabbed the handle of the large oak door, but before he pulled on it he turned back to the dejected blonde. 

“I tell him you came- that you worried.”

And that had to be enough because in the next moment he disappeared once more.


	2. No Lions in Vegas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ovi’s grin softened, but remained. “We all know there no lions in Vegas. But I can think of one waiting for you to come back and cuddle instead of trying to defend.”

The curtains were drawn and the lights were off in their Arizona hotel suite. The boys were grateful for a day off and Tom was glad that Andre had returned from his morning jog so he could use the scrawny Swede as a body pillow.

The two had created a little nest at the center of Tom’s queen bed, so he could curl around his friend. His mind felt disconnected. He couldn’t focus with sharp buzzing in his ears. Yet, how was he supposed to rest with the steady beating of a drum behind his aching forehead, swollen with dark ominous bruising? Tucked close, with Andre’s lithe hands softly scratching at his scalp, he felt some level of reprieve. Not much, but some.

That’s the frustrating thing about concussions. He couldn’t take much for the pain, for fear of increasing a bleed in his brain. The muscle relaxants helped with the whip lash, but that was all he’ been allotted.

Above him, Andre sat scrolling through his phone. He’d taken to fielding the concern flowing in from former teammates. Mike had texted the moment the hit took place; he’d had an evening off after facing Dynamo the night before. Williams had checked in. Laich had reached out. A lot of their buddies had commented on the situation. With Willy banned from screens at the moment, Andre had become his personal PR rep. Well, personal personal relations rep, not public. He grinned at his own wit. 

Tom had nearly fallen asleep to the calming presence of his teammate when he felt the Swede jerk below him. “Whaa?” Wilson groaned out. He could feel how tense Andre had become. Tom turned so he could see Andre’s face and found it tense with eyes aflame, jaw clinched, and hands shaking. Something had seriously pissed him off. 

“What happened Bura?” Tom tried again. Andre was clearly torn. He didn’t want to share, but Tom was waiting. “It’s not like I don’t know there’s, you know, fans that want me dead Bura. So what is it?” His voice was deeper, stretched and slow like molasses as he worked to form his argument. All it did was highlight how muddied his bruised brain was at the moment. 

“It’s not that Willy. It’s. Umm, actually, I need to go talk to Nick.”

Without any further explanation, and with a determination that overcame Tom’s whining as he was abandoned by his pillow, Andre slipped from the room.

 

Nicklas Backstrom sat crisscross at the edge of his bed. He could feel Ovi behind him as they dealt with the enraged 23 year old and couldn’t help but feel thankful to have some back up with this one.

“It’s fucking sick,” Andre growled. “And they’re supporting it! And excited about it! And what the actual fuck?!” The curly haired forward was pacing back and forth, feet landing heavily with each step to exaggerate his exasperation. 

He’d seen the article from the Washington Post, retweet after retweet about Ryan Reaves signing the photo of his best friend laying prone on the ice after he’d been blindsided by the man. He’d seen the arguments and debates as their fans battled what felt like every other fan in the league. He flopped back onto the empty bed and grasped at his face to try and bat away the surge of emotion. 

“Why can’t they see it? He’s not… he’s actually a great fucking human. I mean, you guys saw how he reacted after he hit Sundqvist! He was devastated! And then he gets blasted by Reaves and the people crown that bastard! The fucker who’s, what? Trying to make an extra buck off of someone’s brain getting scrambled? Did he accidentally spend all his money on hookers? Is he low on cash? What the fuck?!”

Running out of steam, Andre fell silent. His gut felt worn and beaten from the violent emotions that had been churching within him for the past half hour. His eyes stung from held back tears. His throat ached from yelling. 

The bed sunk beside him and he turned to see Nicky settling in. The older Swede gazed at him for a moment, eyes calculating. He reached out and combed his fingers into Andre’s mess of curls before gripping them. Not too tightly, but in a grounding way. 

“People like to talk a lot about things they don’t know about,” Backstrom began quietly. He glanced over to see Ovi settled on his side, head propped on a hand as he watched the two Swedes. The captain nodded in encouragement. Nicky carried on. 

“It’s not worth our time to worry about what they think or say. We know Tommy and we love him. That’s what matters.”

Ovi grinned and Nicky knew he was about to add something completely unhelpful, but the Russian plowed on past his center’s warning gaze. 

“Yeah, like Keith say. Lions aren’t concerned n with the opinions of sheep.” 

Andre glared. “I don’t wanna hear another word about lions.”

Ovi’s grin softened, but remained. “We all know there no lions in Vegas. But I can think of one waiting for you to come back and cuddle instead of trying to defend.”

A sharp blush worked its way up Andre’s cheeks. He leaned into Nicky’s hand for a moment and took a deep breath before nodding and pulling himself up.


	3. The Tale of a Tom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shrugged casually as blood drizzled down his forehead and his knuckles throbbed and ached – swollen from bashing into the unforgiving side of a helmet. He’d grinned at Backstrom’s sad gaze from his seat in the penalty box. It was worth it. He just wanted to play hockey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this even fan fiction? Or is it romanticized journalism, the player's piece I've always wanted to report on? We may never know.

Before Tom ever stepped onto the ice at Capital One Arena, the announcers were referring to him as Big Willy. Oates had every intention of molding the young forward into a grinder, a bully. He wouldn’t complain though. He had always been willing to step up and fill the shoes set out for him. Anything to thrive at this level. 

He’d stood tall, thrown the mitts, and defended the honor of his teammates. He’d laid his body on the line to block shots. He’d stepped up to make the big hits. 

He shrugged casually as blood drizzled down his forehead and his knuckles throbbed and ached – swollen from bashing into the unforgiving side of a helmet. He’d grinned at Backstrom’s sad gaze from his seat in the penalty box. It was worth it. He just wanted to play hockey. 

But when Trotz arrived, with knowing eyes and kinder methods, he saw so much more. He looked at the eager 20 year old, capable and diligent, and shook his head at the wasted years. When he looked at Willy he didn’t see a goon. He saw top 6 potential. 

It wasn’t easy to undo the damage though. Wilson had a bad habit of taking the big hits, unable to resist even if the puck had left, even if the player was vulnerable. It was a strange saga. Tom Wilson found his offensive stride tallying points, making space for the skill players, throwing his heart and soul into whatever role he was given. His presence derailed teams, giving his brothers room to dominate on the power play. He continued to make an impact on the penalty kill with his aggressive sacrificial style of play. And it wasn’t just on the ice. He took younger players under his wing. He spoke up with inspiring words. Trotz looked at that young man and saw a leader, a captain. He saw the heart and soul of a hockey team. Yet simultaneously he began to rack up suspensions with foolish head shots and blindsides. The Canadian was on a long journey of one step forward, two steps back.

It came to head when Wilson launched his shoulder into the jaw of Pittsburgh Penguins forward Zach Aston-Reese. Facing a three game suspension in the middle of their playoff run was enough to draw the ire of the NHL community. Tom woke up the next morning, pulled out his phone and came to a sudden realization. He was now the most hated player in hockey. 

It's easy to forget the bumps in the road once you’re drinking from Lord Stanley. Easy for Nick to overlook his painfully disfigured finger. Easy for the pain in Ovi’s knee to fade into the background. Easy for TJ to grin and embrace his father, pretending that the moment stood more powerfully than nature and its cruel grip. Easy for Tom to forget the pile of death threats and cruel biting words, the letters filling his parent’s mailbox up in Toronto. 

Despite a summer of pure bliss and unadulterated celebration, September came quickly and the boys were back on the ice. And Tom quickly found himself back at it again. In their final preseason game, he steamrolled Oskar Sundqvist of the St. Louis Blues. The hammer fell. The league threw the book at him. Tom was facing a 20 game suspension. 

Tom’s name was everywhere. He’d deleted Twitter the year before, but it didn’t take much to know that he was the talk of the league. His name kept creeping into interviews where it had no right to be. And as his suspension came to a close, he realized that changing his reputation wasn’t going to come easily. His first game he scored and didn’t throw a single hit. Yet social media flooded with cries against him- he didn’t deserve to play, didn’t belong on the ice, some even saying he didn’t deserve to live. 

As the rematch against Vegas approached, talk escalated. The hockey community began to egg on Ryan Reaves. He was going to be the challenger- the avenger. Before Tom stepped onto the ice that night he knew it was going to the most physical game they’d seen so far that year. 

In the tunnel he felt a tug at the back of his jersey and he glanced back to see Nicky gazing at him, eyes cold with intensity. “You’re on a point streak. You’re on the fucking top line. Don’t fight tonight. Leave him down there. Make him wish he was you.”

A slow smirk formed at Tom’s lips.


	4. A Tom Wilson Sized Gap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re okay baby,” John murmured as Tom jerked forward off balance, gasping at the sudden movement. “You’re okay.”  
> Despite his words, Tom Wilson was not okay. And their found family wasn’t okay either.

Everyone knows the type. Those people who take up so much space in every arena of their lives. Tall, and broad and boisterous. Wilson embodied the type. You couldn’t share a couch, a bed, or a bench with the Canadian without him spreading into your personal space. You couldn’t wander into a house party and miss his booming voice and chaotic antics. You couldn’t sit in the Capitals dressing room and overlook the intensity and passion radiating from the young forward. And you certainly couldn’t face him on the ice and forget that Big Willy was present. 

It’s like a wave of ice water pelting you in the face when someone so distinct suddenly becomes unfamiliar. Willy’s supposed to be big. He’s supposed to take up too much space. He’s not supposed to look fragile. 

You know it’s serious when Holtby abandons his crease to accompany a fallen player. Braden didn’t wait long after the whistle to kneel beside Tom and wrap his arm around his back. 

“Willy? You okay Tom? Talk to me bud,” he insisted. Tom just groaned, forehead pressed against the cold ice, perhaps seeking relief for his obviously aching head, perhaps it was too much effort to lift it. “Hang in there Tom. You’re okay bud.”

The overprotective goaltender patted reassuringly as Tom finally began to try and sit up. Releasing a sigh of relief, Holtby stood and stepped back to make way for the trainer who’d finally managed to reach them. 

Tom knelt, but his entire frame slouched forward, head drooping and bobbing as if he’d forgotten how to hold it aloft. His words slurred lazily as he attempted to answer the trainer’s questions about his neck and back and mind. The damage was clear enough that when the ref and two linesman swooped in to hear the assessment, their trainer didn’t waste any time. He looked the head ref in the eye and shook his head. “He’s done. Maybe for a while.” 

If seeing their teammate prone on the ice was worrisome, then watching him wobble and teeter as he clung to Stephenson and the trainer made it that much worse. They’d been targeted too many times this year- and concussions were scary enough as is. Most tried to keep their distance, reign in the emotions and keep a grip on the game they still had to play out. But Kuzy gave his liney a love tap on the backside and Carlson had shoved his way in place of the trainer so he could help the 6 foot 4 hockey player make it off the ice.   
“You’re okay baby,” John murmured as Tom jerked forward off balance, gasping at the sudden movement. “You’re okay.”  
Despite his words, Tom Wilson was not okay. And their found family wasn’t okay either. They watched as he disappeared down the tunnel. They watched as their alternate and captain left the refs circle, grim and frustrated despite the call in their favor. An extended power play wasn’t going to fill a Tom Wilson sized gap.


	5. From My Disjointed View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as Jason was within reach, Tom slumped forward into him, head resting on the blue-clad chest of the medic. 
> 
> “Alright Tommy,” he said softly. “You hit pretty hard. Do you know where we are right now?”

The moment contact was made Tom knew he was in trouble. He felt the way his body whipped forward without his consent, no time to brace for impact. Pain exploded through his head, spreading sharply out from his forehead as his neck jolted and his body followed, bouncing off the ice upon impact. 

For just a moment the sounds of the arena faded into white noise. Sharp ringing echoed in his head and just as soon as it fled, the sounds came rushing back in – this time far too loud for his liking. He could hear the crowd jeering, the boys arguing, the refs yelling. All of it combined as an attack on his ailing head. 

It didn’t take long for Tom’s hockey instincts to kick in. Up. He’s got to get up. Gingerly sliding his knees forward, he braced to try and crawl to his feet. But, not even three inches had been gained before vertigo swept over him. The world seemed to tilt and his stomach churned. Maybe getting up was an unreasonable venture. Maybe just breathing would be a good place to start. Sucking in shaky breaths, Tom clinched his eyes closed and tried to block out everything else. 

A large gloved hand settled onto his lower back and succeeded in pulling Tom’s wandering mind back to the present. Holts. He knew on instinct that the overprotective goaltender had come to check in when he’d failed to move. 

“Willy? You okay Tom?” Holtby murmured, leaning forward to be heard. And Tom had heard. He had even noticed the concern laced in Braden’s tone. He’d heard the urgency. But everything seemed to be swirling together and even breathing was a lot of work, so that’s what Tom focused on. 

“Talk to me bud,” the veteran insisted. And Tom wanted to respond, he did. But it wasn’t that easy and all he could manage was a pained groan. The firm hand turned to a pat as Holtby continued his attempt to gauge how bad the situation was. 

He must’ve realized it was pretty damn grim, because instead of continuing to press for info, he switched to mother hen mode. “Hang in there Tom. You’re okay bud.” 

Time had gotten all wonky for the ailing forward. He felt as though he’d been down for ages. And he knew it had to have been some stretch of time, because the players had settled down. But Jason, their head trainer hadn’t arrived yet, so it couldn’t have been too long. The entire train of thought exhausted Tom, but also spurred him to give sitting up another go. 

As he pulled his unsteady body up, he managed to settle in an upright position, seated on his skates. It took him a moment to realize Holtby had backed away, their trainer materialized in his place. Sitting up was a nice idea, but also a really awful idea. As soon as Jason was within reach, Tom slumped forward into him, head resting on the blue-clad chest of the medic. 

“Alright Tommy,” he said softly. “You hit pretty hard. Do you know where we are right now?”

Tom sucked in a shaky breath before replying. “Vegas.”

“Awesome, and the date today?”

That one was a struggle on a normal day, in a normal moment, but Tom had been eagerly awaiting this particular game. “The… it’s the fourth,” Tom slurred out after a moment of thought. 

“That’s good. That’s good Tommy. Now, did you black out at all?”

Tom’s head bobbed and he leaned more heavily into Jason. The trainer remained steady and insistent. “Tommy?” 

“I uh, I don’t think so.” 

Jason nodded. The refs had checked in at that point and were listening to the exchange. When Jason looked to the head ref, he kept a steady hand on Tom. “We’re probably looking at a few games here at the least.”

The ref nodded and skated back to give them some room.

“You ready to get up Tom?” Jason asked and Tom gave a soft yes. Grabbing the front of his jersey, Jason steadied him as Tom struggled shakily to his feet. If Chandler Stephenson hadn’t stepped in, he may not have had the balance to make it that far. Leaning heavily on the two men, he managed to give small pushes with his right skate, but not much more. The dazed eyes, staring out at nothing, worried Jason but they were moving in the right direction. 

Tom let out a whimper as another wave of vertigo and he felt himself sliding backwards, but they had a firm grip and managed to keep him upright and moving forward. 

John Carlson, seeing the height deference between Jason in his sneakers and an already towering Tom Wilson on skates, stepped up to move in on Tom’s left. The exchange jostled him slightly and tipped him backwards, but John remained steady. The trio continued their slow journey to the bench as John comforted his friend as best he could. 

They transferred him to another set of medics off ice and could only watch as their teammate wobbled shakily towards the quiet room. 

Left alone for a moment, Tom curled onto his side, hands clutching at his aching head. That’s when it hit him. He was going to be out – out for a while. Right in the middle of the best point streak he’d ever managed in the NHL. Right in the middle of what was becoming a career year.

Tears burned in his eyes and he felt irritation wage war on his anguish. Head injuries really were the worst. They pulled out an array of unwanted and volatile emotions. As if the pain itself wasn’t enough, you have to battle a storm of unfamiliar feeling as well. 

Tom groaned into the silence. “Fuuuuck.”


End file.
